


Purgatory

by MidwesternDuchess



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, I ship these two like nobody's buisness, Vignettes, could honestly be read as platonic if that's more your thing, it's not even blatant it's kinda just there, mercykill - Freeform, not fluffy they're in the middle of a war for god's sake, their personalities work so well together idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 09:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6950842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidwesternDuchess/pseuds/MidwesternDuchess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m afraid if I listen to my heart once, I’ll never figure out how to ignore it again.” -Colleen Hoover </p><p> <br/><i>(They were like parallel lines: always close, but never touching.)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Purgatory

"Dr. Ziegler?"

Angela immediately tears her gaze away from her computer, clear blue eyes finding the child lying in the hospital bed beside her. She rises from her office chair to move to his bedside.

"Yes, Simon?" she asks, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear as she smiles kindly down at the young boy. "What do you need?"

Simon frowns, brow furrowing endearingly as he aims his pout at the door. Angela follows his gaze, mirroring her patient's look of displeasure.

Like all rooms in the trauma ward, Simon's room is closed with a sliding glass door, which is then covered with a curtain for privacy. Directly outside Simon's room stand two men, their tall, broad silhouettes outlined against the paisley-printed curtain.

"They've been standing out there for a while," Simon tells her, looking back to the doctor, worrying his lip. "Am I in trouble?"

She turns back to the boy, gently stroking back his fair hair. "No, no," she assures him quietly. "You have done nothing wrong. You have been very, very brave. I will get rid of those men." She offers him a smile, and he returns it hesitantly, snuggling deeper down in his blankets.

 _"Danke,"_ he murmurs.

 _"Gern geschehen,"_ she replies, pulling back the sliding glass door and slipping outside. She keeps her back to the men as she closes the door and adjusts the curtains, making sure they completely cover the glass.

Then, drawing a breath and steeling herself, Angela turns to face the two men, keeping her expression carefully schooled.

Their silhouettes hadn't lied. The two men stand tall in the middle of the trauma ward, painfully out of place in their desert fatigues and combat gear. Angela looks them over, deeply unnerved at their weapons.

"Gentlemen," her voice is cool and professional, but not kind. She gazes at the pair of them, dully cheered that the extra height her heels lend her keep her from having to tilt back her head. "May I help you?"

The one of the left—the one with a shock of blond hair and a chiseled jaw who looks so much like Captain America that Angela finds herself biting her cheek to keep from making a patriotic quip—reaches within the folds of his coat to produce a badge of some sort. She notices the one of the right—the one with dark hair that curls out from beneath a beanie—watches her silently. She spares him a sidelong glance to let him know his silent observations are not unnoticed before settling her gaze back on Captain— _the other one._

"I'm John Morrison, ma'am, and this is Gabriel Reyes." He nods respectfully before holding up the badge. "We're with Overwatch."

She arches an eyebrow, unimpressed. That explains the weapons, at least. Overwatch agents have incredibly leeway.

"Charming," she remarks. "I will be honest, gentlemen. I don't care who you are or where you're from—you're upsetting my patient." She gestures back to Simon's room, expression hard.

John bows his head in apology. "Very sorry, ma'am. We're searching for someone, and we got a bit lost."

Angela doesn't buy his lie for a moment. They simply wandered into the third floor trauma wing, did they? Poor little lambs.

"Well, if you are quite done," Angela tells them darkly, treating them both to severe glances. "I'd be more than happy to show you the door."

"Are you Angela Ziegler?" the one with the beanie asks, lifting a questioning brow. Angela bristles at his tone.

 _"Doctor_ Angela Ziegler," she corrects him coldly, feeling her chin lift in defiance.

A smirk plays at his lips. "MD or PHD?" he asks. The man at his side casts him an exasperated glance.

"Both." The word is clipped and sharpened as she stares evenly at him. "A fact I doubt you were unaware of, considering you came all the way to Switzerland to speak with me."

He barks a laugh at that. "You telling me we can't pass as locals?"

"Your accents give you away," she tells him pointedly, determinedly avoiding a comment about a star-spangled superhero. "Besides, everyone in Switzerland knows to never enter my hospital with a weapon."

His quirks a brow, hand falling to grip his sidearm in what looks like a habitual action. "You're that famous, huh?" he drawls.

She gives him a steely look. "News travels fast, as they say," she remarks.

"We hoped to speak with you, Doctor," John cuts in. "About Overwatch."

She lifts a single brow. "You want to talk? Certainly. Let's talk about the city you leveled in France. Two hundred civilians dead." Her words are as sharp as broken glass—cold and accusatory.

Her statement seems to stun John into silence, and she offers him a demure smile. "Lovely talk, then. If we're all finished here, I need to return—"

"You like helping people?" The blunt question is posed to her by the man in the beanie, who hasn't taken his eyes off of her since she left Simon's room. What had he been called? Gabriel?

She turns to face him, expression cool. "I am a doctor," she answers simply. "I have dedicated my life to preserving the lives of others."

He nods. "Good. Then Overwatch is what you're looking for."

John casts him a sideways glance, and Angela gets the distinct impression this isn't the recruitment speech they'd agreed upon. It amuses her, a little.

She folds her arms behind her back, assessing him curiously.

"You're offering me a position?" she asks. "I didn't realize Overwatch cared about medicine. Or basic humanity."

He meets her gaze evenly. "It's not always pretty," he admits. "But we always get the job done." He holds out his hand then, and she notices he's offering her a communication device.

"Gabe," Morrison speaks up, alarmed. "We were only supposed to give that to her if she agreed—"

"Help us help other people," he insists, ignoring his partner and staring her dead in the eyes. "Those two hundred civilians in France? You could be there next time."

She peers at the device, reaching out to take it. It has a healthy weight, and she glances over the smooth, glossy screen.

"You'd let me in the field?" she asks, glancing up questioningly. She tries to keep the hope she feels from leaking into her voice.

The man called Gabriel shrugs, folding his arms. "If you promise not to die, then sure." He watches her deliberate. "Look, Doc. We know all about your research, and the work you've done. Overwatch can give you the reach you've been wanting. You could help people on a global scale."

Angela looks up at him. "I am not—"

"Doctor!"

Angela breaks off, looking away and stepping back to find the worried gaze of a nurse who comes sprinting up towards her. Angela's stomach clenches at the blood on her scrubs.

"Emily," she greets her shortly, eyes narrowed. "What's wrong?"

"We just got an airlifted patient. They can't get a pulse and—"

Angela's stark white coat snaps at her heels as she immediately strides off, Emily chattering anxiously at her side. She pockets the device in her hand on instinct, and feels the weight of dark eyes on her back as she does. She throws an appraising glance over her shoulder.

Gabriel Reyes stares back at her unflinchingly.

She nods, and he nods back, a smirk twisting his lips.

In her pocket, the communication device buzzes to life.

-0-

A gentle hum fills the air as Mercy's staff glows softly in the gloom of the abandoned shack.

"There we are," she murmurs, smiling at her handiwork. She lowers her Caduceus Staff, glancing up at her patient. "You're free to go, but do keep an eye out for those mines. You're fast, but fragile."

"Thanks, Doc!" Tracer chirps merrily, flashing the blonde a bright smile before she sprints from the room, faster than any eye can follow.

Mercy smiles lightly to herself, letting her Caduceus Staff fall slack at her side as she listens to the sound of combat rage around her. She hopes the young woman takes her warning to heart. She has half a mind to follow her, when she realizes Tracer is probably halfway across the battlefield by now.

She pushes herself to her feet, wings on her back fluttering gently at her movements. Her Valkyrie suit has held up nicely, she notes with pride. She thinks back on the look of disbelief Reyes had given her when she'd presented it to him with smug satisfaction.

 _"Look, I can appreciate the message,"_ he'd explained. _"An angel descending from heaven to help people. Real poetic, Doc. But does it **work?"**_

She'd just arched an eyebrow. _"Ask me after the battle,"_ she'd responded coolly.

That had been weeks ago, and the subject hadn't been broached again.

Still, her transition to Overwatch hadn't been completely smooth. She and Reyes butted heads constantly, torn between what she wanted and what he could give her.

 _"I can't just give you free reign, Doc,"_ he'd insisted. _"I know you want to help as many people as you can, but we're foreigners everywhere we go. You gotta earn their trust before you can aim your magic stick at 'em."_

 _"It isn't **magic,"**_ she'd replied coldly. _"And I will only stop helping people when I'm **dead."**_

The cold click of a gun being cocked catches her attention, dragging her out of her daydream and sending her backpedaling away from the noise, reaching blindly for her weapon.

Mercy spins around, Caduceus Blaster flashing in the light as she aims it at the noise.

Reyes stands at the other end of the room, one of his shotguns pointed right back at her.

The moment hangs—suspended and slow—as her heart beats wildly in her chest, spurred on by panic.

Then he tucks his weapon away, scowling as he advances on her.

"What are you doing in here?" Reyes demands. He gestures at the walls that surround them. "You're cornering yourself!"

"Tracer needed me," Mercy replies coolly, lowering her arm. Her sidearm weighs uncomfortably in her hand, and she watches as his eyes drop to where she holds the weapon.

"Your grip is terrible," he informs her lowly.

She shrugs. "My aim is worse, if you can believe it."

He just stares at her for a moment, and Mercy wonders if he's truly about to lecture her here—in the middle of a _battle_ —when they both hear an unmistakable cry for help.

Mercy surges towards the noise, all sense and logic abandoning her as the need to help overtakes her. Reyes seizes her by the arm, hauling her back behind him.

"Stop," he orders sharply, eyes narrowed. "There's a sniper—"

"Someone _needs_ me!" Mercy protests, trying to break his hold.

A bullet splinters the ground at her feet and Reyes yanks her back further into the shack, gun cracking as he fires back.

"I told you to _stop,"_ he growls, one hand curled around her arm, the other aiming up at the rooftop opposite them. She hears him swear as he releases her to rummage around for something on his belt.

Her chest heaves as she draws in a huge breath. If she'd taken one more step…

Reyes withdraws a grenade before pausing to put two fingers to his ear, eyes narrowing as he listens to the chatter of his comrades.

"You got eyes on him. Ana?" he asks harshly. "He almost put a bullet through Mercy, so you've got about fifteen seconds to take him out before I blow him to hell."

Mercy can't hear what Ana's response is—knowing the cold, haughty Egyptian sharpshooter it is doubtlessly impolite and scathing—but Reyes is obviously dissatisfied.

"Plug your ears," he instructs, yanking out the grenade's pin.

"I'm no stranger to explosions," she retorts, watching as he throws the grenade—almost casually _chucks_ it—up on the opposing rooftop. There's a brief moment of silence, then a shout of alarm, a scuttle of movement…

The grenade detonates, blasting away half of the rooftop with it. Angela starts slightly as it crashes down before the door to the shack, eyes wide as she takes in the mangled remains of the sniper.

Reyes just gives the body a brief look of disgust before turning around to look her in the eyes.

"Stay out of rooms like this, got it?" he orders her. His eyes gleam like raw obsidian. "A buddy of mine got shot up in one of 'em. They're death traps."

She nods slowly. "Of course, Commander," she tells him. She swallows, trying to regain her composure. "Thank you."

He turns his back on her, deftly reloading his weapons.

"Just call me by my name," he instructs gruffly.

She smiles as he goes sprinting from the room, barking orders over the radio.

"Very well then, Gabriel," she murmurs, before pulling from the room and following the cries for help.

-0-

"He can't be _trusted,"_ Reyes growls.

Overwatch's Commander stalks into the room, tearing off his cracked body armor and chucking it carelessly into the corner.

Mercy strides after him, blood splattered across her Valkyrie suit. "I am not suggesting you hand him the keys to the organization," she argues. "But you asked for my opinion, so there it is."

"When I asked you what we should do with him, I was looking for execution suggestions," Reyes tells her flatly, shooting her an annoyed glance.

Morrison eases into the room after them, glancing between the two. "You make a decision?" he asks Reyes. "Because unless you say something, it's hang 'em high time."

Mercy rounds on him. "You cannot let them kill him, Gabriel," she insists. "Think of the message you'll send."

Reyes spreads his hands. "What? _If you take part in illegal weapon smuggling and violently oppose Overwatch, we'll kill you?_ Is that such a terrible message?"

"Give him a choice," Mercy pleads.

Reyes scoffs at this, peeling off his Kevlar vest. "Yeah, let him into the organization that broke up his gang. Why don't I hand him a loaded gun while I'm at it?" He throws her a look of stark incredulity as he tosses his vest after his body armor.

"He will do right by us, I swear it," Mercy asserts. "Please, Gabriel. I know men like him. I've treated them my whole life. Killing him would be a waste—pointless carnage. Give him something to rally behind—to anchor himself to—and you will see a change."

"It would certainly look good for Overwatch," Morrison cuts in.

Reyes scowls. "Yeah? You know what's _not_ gonna look good for Overwatch? A headline that reads _strike team shot in their sleep after leader stupidly lets in known outlaw."_

"I'll watch him," Mercy volunteers. "If you're that worried, Gabriel, I'll—"

 _"Enough,"_ Reyes cuts her off, dragging his hands down his face. Christ, he's exhausted. "You aren't on this team to babysit criminals, Doc." He sighs, folding his arms across his chest. Mercy spies a bloodstain on his shirt that has progressively grown larger during their argument and catalogues it for later treatment.

"You're really determined to save this guy, aren't you?" he asks, frowning at her.

Mercy shrugs helplessly. "War is full of so much meaningless death," she explains. "Jesse McCree is too skilled for such a graceless end. He will die without ever having truly lived."

Morrison checks his watch. "We've got about twenty minutes until the suits arrive to hang these guys, Gabe," he says. "If you're giving McCree an out, you need to do it now."

Reyes groans, mopping his face with his hands again. Mercy listens as he grumbles expletives through his fingers.

"Do you really think McCree will change?" he asks, dropping his hands and looking up at her. His eyes are buckshot dark. She couldn't lie to them if she tried.

"Yes," she answers immediately.

He cocks an eyebrow. "Bet your life?"

She gazes back at him steadily, lips twitching with amusement. "Always."

They stare at each other in silence for a moment before Reyes sighs, crossing the room to grab his vest again.

"This is a one time thing," he warns as he tugs it on. "And only because McCree's the best damn gunslinger I've ever seen, got it? I'm not gonna spare every person you think deserves a second chance. Sometimes people just have to die, okay? We all make choices in this life, and we gotta face the consequences."

Mercy nods her understanding, trying not to beam. "Thank you, Gabriel," she tells him quietly.

He just grunts in reply, looking to Morrison. "Back me up, would you? If this guy shoots me in the back after I offer him a position, I'm gonna be pissed."

Morrison nods, stepping aside and gesturing for Reyes to lead the way. He sweeps from the room, his friend right behind him. Mercy lets them go, striding off to the infirmary.

"If anyone asks, you're the one that convinced me to spare this sonuvabitch," Reyes explains tersely as the pair moves through Overwatch's base. He glances back at Morrison. "Got it?"

The other man nods in easy agreement. "Sure. Any particular reason?"

Reyes shoulders open the door to their impromptu holding cell, nodding at an agent guarding the door as they enter.

"If this goes south," he mutters, footsteps echoing as they near McCree's cell. "I don't want her name getting mixed up in it. The second he does something shady, I want a bullet in his head, got it?"

Morrison nods his understanding as he and Reyes arrive at McCree's cell door.

"Up and at 'em, cowboy," Reyes calls to the outlaw, resting his arms against the bars to look down on the seated criminal. "It's your lucky day."

-0-

Angela feels his eyes on her—his gaze heavy but still warm. The softest steel.

His footfalls are weighed down by his combat boots, and it amuses her that he can be absolutely soundless when sneaking through dangerous areas on stealth missions, and create enough noise for six people the next moment.

She feels his presence at her back, but ignores him as she continues writing. She doesn't want to lose her train of thought, and he has something to say to her, he'll say it without being prompted.

The silence drags on, and Angela flicks her gaze up to watch as Reyes makes his way around the table, dropping down into the other seat, the guts of a shotgun in his hands. She watches briefly as his fingers make quick work of the weapon—reassembling it in seconds. She'll never _not_ be impressed by his combat and weapon prowess.

This heavy silence, however, she can do _well_ without.

"You're very distracting, you know," Angela murmurs, dropping her gaze back down as she continues to jot down notes.

"Guess it's true then, what they say about doctor's handwriting," Reyes muses, eyes on his weapon. "I can't read that for shit."

She rolls her eyes, pen scratching against the paper. "That's probably because it's in German," she informs him lightly.

He drops the gun in his lap, leveling a steady gaze at her.

"Doc," he begins. His tone isn't always gentle— _he_ isn't always gentle, he can't afford to be—but it's warm and low and steady. She narrows her eyes.

"Please don't start," she counters quietly.

She's not even looking at him, but she knows exactly what his face is doing—eyebrow cocked, lips twisted in a smirk.

"Don't start what?" he asks, and _that's_ a taunting edge if she ever heard one.

Angela slams her hand down then, snapping her head up to glare at him full in the face.

"Do not test me, Reyes," she warns him lowly. "Gérard is dead. How can you be so calm?"

He shrugs. "I've been in the military since I was eighteen, Doc, and watched my neighbors get picked off by LA gangs every year before that." He drops his gaze to her notebook. "Death and I are old friends. I'm not calm. Just tired." He cocks his head then, looking up at her. "Since when do you call me Reyes?"

She sighs too, dropping her head into her hands and shutting her eyes tight.

"Gérard Lacroix was the healthiest man in Overwatch," she mutters through her fingers. "Men like him don't die in their sleep."

"He didn't just _die,_ Doc," Reyes argues. "He was _killed._ By Amélie."

Angela keeps her face hidden by her hands so she doesn't have to try and control her expression.

"I _knew_ Amélie, Gabriel," she whispers. "She and I were _friends._ I cannot believe—"

"You have to."

Angela lowers her hands, looking up at him, her calm, kind features taut with anxiety and anguish.

Reyes sighs, shifting in his seat. "This is war, Doctor," he tells her, his voice gruff but not unkind. "Things change. People change."

Angela's expression hardens. "Amélie did not change. She was _changed._ Against her will."

He allows this with a nod, not wanting to upset her. "Maybe you're right," he says. "We won't know until Ana finishes running the tests on that poison.

She says nothing, content to gaze miserably at the table. Reyes shifts in his seat.

"Look Doc," he begins, "you're a good person. The best, if I get a say in it. You don't distance yourself from your patients, you choose to feel _everything_ —every loss, every win, every recovery, every death."

She opens her mouth to object, but her just holds up a dark hand to silence her.

"I know you want to see the good in everyone," he says quietly. "I know you want to see it, and act like that's all you see. And maybe it is." He sits back in his chair, gazing at her steadily. "But that's not reality. Sometimes people are evil and cruel and dead inside. And when that happens, you gotta let 'em go."

Her eyes spark with resentment. "I do not _let people go,_ Gabirel," she nearly growls.

"Amélie Lacroix is dead, Doc," he tells her firmly. He stares her down—eyes of obsidian against eyes of sapphire. "We're never gonna get her back. We're never gonna be able to undo what Talon did to her."

"She was my friend," Angela argues. "If I could just get her on my table, I could—"

She's stunned into silence as Reyes reaches across the table to capture her hand in his. Their calluses rub against each other—skin rough with use.

"Angela," his voice is soft and dark like smoke. "This is going to destroy you. You have to let her go. She's not your friend anymore. She's a Talon operative who killed one of our most talented agents. She's our number one target right now." He stares at her, willing her to understand. "Please, Doc," he mutters. "You can't lose yourself over this. We need you."

She just stares down at her notes.

"I'm trying," she whispers. Tears fall from her cheeks and blot the paper of her notebook, making the ink run. "She was my friend, Gabriel. I loved her."

"We all did," Reyes murmurs back. "But she's gone now."

-0-

Mercy snaps her eyes open, and the world comes rushing back to her.

She's facedown on the ground, limbs splayed out haphazardly around her. She draws in a breath, immediately wincing at the pain the flares up at the action. _What happened…?_

She hears gunshots and explosions and shouts all around her, and before she can even lift her head to examine her surroundings, she feels herself being hauled to her feet.

"McCree! Get her to safety!" Morrison's voice is loud and commanding and draws a confused frown from Mercy until she realizes that _she's_ the one they're talking about, and McCree is holding her upright. Her vision swims before her as she tries to process everything around her.

"Jesse…?" she squints against the glaring sun, peering up into the face of the gunslinger. He gnaws on his cigar, dark eyes glittering under the shadow cast by his hat as he tugs her away from a huge mess of debris she hadn't even realized he'd pulled out of.

She looks around, seeing similarly destroyed buildings strewn all around them. She sees a flash of blue and watches as Tracer's pistols crack twice before she darts away again, pursued by a Talon agent. A foreign curse rings out, and Mercy glances up at a nearby rooftop to see Ana using her sniper rifle as a blunt weapon to keep the two enemy operatives at bay.

It all comes rushing back to her then: the battle in Dorado. The room she'd ducked into after Reinhardt. The sudden shake. Rein's shout of alarm. An explosion. The walls crumbling. Reinhardt rushing towards her.

The building had collapsed, and Reinhardt had made a desperate leap to escape.

She sways where she stands, suddenly overwhelmed, and McCree snakes an arm around her waist to hold her upright.

"Easy there, Doc," he murmurs as he helps her onto the bench. "You look a little worse for wear."

"I'm fine," she tells him distractedly, gently batting his hands away. She looks around. "Where's my Caduceus Staff?"

"Ole Torb picked it up," the gunslinger replies, taking a knee and peering up at her face. He lets out a low whistle at her injuries. "Christ alive. You sure nothing's broke?"

"I'm _fine,"_ she repeats. She feels nothing but a dull ache, meaning her injuries are so severe, her body is trying to shield her from the pain. When the adrenaline wears off, she'll wish she were dead, she's sure.

McCree just chuckles, rising back to his full height. He pulls off his poncho and drapes it over her shoulders, shaking his head.

"Jut sit tight, Doc," he tells her. "This battle's as good as ours."

"I need my staff," she insists, pushing inelegantly to her feet. She wobbles precariously, and McCree catches her elbow to steady her.

"Doc—"

"People _need_ me!" she insists, fighting to stay on her feet. "John and Gabriel are still out there! And Reinhardt and Tracer and Ana and countless civilians and—"

 _"Quiet,"_ McCree orders sharply, frowning as he eases her back onto the bench. "You can hardly stand. You're no good to anyone like this." He frowns down at her, like he's worried she'll try to move again, but she stays obediently still. Albeit with a dark look and an annoyed set to her lips.

"Lord, Mercy," he drawls, shaking his head as he adjusts his poncho over her thin shoulders. "You're gonna kill yourself tryin' to save someone. You know that?"

She gives him an icy look. "That is the nature of my chosen occupation," she nearly growls.

He just gives a husky laugh. She stews.

They stay that way for what feels like years, time dragging on as Mercy just burrows herself deeper into McCree's poncho while the gunslinger stands guard. She's just preparing to try and push her luck and ask McCree to help her to a spot closer to the fighting when a sudden Swedish engineer bustles over.

"Torbjörn!" She tries to push to her feet, but McCree's hand falls down on her shoulder, giving her a gentle squeeze that stills her movements. Reluctantly, she settles back, holding the poncho tighter around herself as Torbjörn draws nearer.

"I'm so sorry, Angela," he tells her, sincerity ringing hard in his tone. Mercy frowns, not understanding his apology, until he presents the doctor with the splintered remains of her Caduceus Staff.

"Oh," Mercy remarks quietly, frowning down at the mess of technology in Torbjörn's hands. "Oh. Well, that complicates things a bit."

"It shattered on impact," Torbjörn explains, hard voice soft with apology, glaring at the staff like he can will it back into its proper shape. "Reinhardt took the brunt of the fall, but you were roughed up pretty badly. Luckily, your staff seemed to break your fall, but…" he trails off, sighing with a look to the busted equipment. "At a price, clearly."

Mercy just nods, taking it all in with a blank kind of numbness. She'd spent years perfecting her Caduceus Staff. Her mind races ahead then, trying to determined how many sleepless nights she's going to need to rebuild it.

"It's all right," she eventually murmurs, accepting the shattered remains of her staff. "If not for Reinhardt, I would be dead." She smiles kindly at the engineer. "I can build a new staff. Maybe with your help this time?"

Torbjörn opens his mouth to speak, but ends up stepping aside instead as Reyes comes striding up, fresh from the fight, starless eyes latched onto her gaze.

"Gabriel," she looks up in surprise, quickly scanning him for any injuries. "Where's John? Is he—?"

"What happened?" he asks bluntly, squatting before her and taking her jaw in her his hand. She's so prepared to scold him for his rough touch; she's stunned into silence when she realizes he's handling her with a gentleness she wonders if _she_ could rival.

"Collateral," she answers softly. "Reinhardt rescued me from a collapsing building. It was either this or two tons of cement on my head." She gestures to her Caduceus Staff. "My staff broke," she tacks on, a bit unnecessarily.

He doesn't even look, his eyes fixed on the ugly gash on her cheek. "This is deep," he mutters, almost to himself. He drags his thumb along the edge of the wound and she draws in a hiss of pain. "Sorry."

"It's fine," she replies, trying to gently push his hand away. "I can treat them myself later, Gabriel. What about you? And John? Where are Rein and—?"

He blows out a frustrated breath, gritting his teeth as he cuts her off.

"Doc," he starts roughly. "Shut the hell up, and worry about your own damn self. Everyone is _fine._ Except _you."_

"They're setting up a temporary infirmary just inside the church," Tracer explains, darting up to the scene with her usual smile and cheer. It fades slightly when she catches sight of Mercy. "Alright, love?" she asks anxiously, bending over to level herself with the doctor. "What happened?"

"Move," Reyes orders bluntly, rising to his feet and pulling Mercy with him. "Nobody bother me for the next half hour, got it?" He belts his arm around her waist, ignoring her grumbled complaints as he hauls her off in the direction Tracer had gestured to.

"Reyes!" McCree calls after him. "What about the damn stragglers? And all those explosives we found?"

"If you got a problem, go find Jack," Reyes calls back, already halfway down the dusty road, Mercy's arm slung across his shoulders.

They hear the gunslinger curse indignantly under his breath but Reyes is beyond caring. It's like he's tuned out the rest of the world as they make their way across the war-torn city.

She breaks the silence first. She always does.

"Thank you for your assistance, Gabri—"

"I thought we talked about rooms, Angela," he cuts her off deftly, but his words aren't cruel. She looks askance and sees him staring straight ahead, a determined set to his jaw.

"We did," she murmurs, relaxing against him as they continue along the debris-littered path. "We did. _Es tut mir leid."_

He finally glances sideways at her, lifting a brow. "You can drop as much German around me as you want, Doc. I'm not gonna pick it up."

She smirks, ignoring the pain that flares up with the action.

-0-

Angela strides through the hospital, eyes alight with anger.

She'd only just changed out of her Valkyrie suit, and the matte black catsuit she wears beneath it is dark with blood and damp with sweat as she brushes wayward strands of hair out of her eyes. She hasn't slept in twenty-eight hours, and it's a fatigue she feels in her bones. But she continues on, spine straight and shoulders back as she weaves her way expertly through the crowded emergency room.

She peers into multiple rooms, scanning names tacked on the outside of doors and ignoring the protests of various nurses and doctors as she continues her search. Some part of her—dim and unconcerned—knows that if this were her own hospital, back in Switzerland, and someone had the audacity to stroll through _her_ emergency ward like they owned the place she'd personally escort them out and make sure they never showed their face again.

But being Overwatch's angel carries a certain amount of weight with it, and she's left relatively undisturbed until she finally spies the name _Reyes_ scrawled on the outside of one of the last rooms, and bursts inside, eyes wide and searching.

He's laying in a hospital bed, covered in bandages and hooked up to an IV, looking like death warmed over. His jaw is dark with stubble and bruises, and she eyes the stitched cut her sports just above his right eye. She briefly notes the presence of a nurse in the corner of the room, fussing over paperwork, but can't summon a shred of concern of care because _he's there_ and his chest is rising and falling and she can hear the reassuring beep of the EKG.

 _"Gabriel,"_ she gasps with relief, fingers curling around the railing that rings his bed. "What are you _doing_ here?"

The man shifts, cracking one eye to blearily observe the blonde leaning worriedly over his bed.

"Got blown up," he reports, his words slow and slurred. "Checked myself in an' everything. Aren'tcha proud, Doc?" He offers her a dopey smile.

Angela shakes her head, uttering some choice words in German under her breath as she reaches for his chart. "Just how many drugs did they give you?" she grumbles, flipping the clipboard around, scanning the figures.

"Hey!" the nurse frowns angrily as Angela pursues Reyes' documents. "That's a HIPAA violation!" She snatches the clipboard out of the blonde's hands.

Angela turns on her, eyes burning.

"I am Doctor Angela Ziegler," she replies, her words low and fierce. "I was elbow deep in the chest cavity of a solider, trying to preform surgery in the back of a Humvee driving eighty miles an hour through enemy territory while _you_ were flunking out of Pharm 1000 at University." She takes a step, towering over the younger woman, expression cold and drawn, smoothly tugging the clipboard out of her suddenly limp hands. _"Do not_ tell me what is and is not a HIPAA violation."

The nurse swallows hard, stammers out a reply, before scurrying out of the room.

Angela watches her go, anger still simmering as she drops her gaze back to the clipboard.

 _"Trottel,"_ she mutters, flipping through the pages.

"Never seen you so angry, Doc," Reyes comments from the bed. She glances up to see him still giving her that stupid grin. "Well, at someone other'n McCree, anyway."

"Kindly shut up," she requests, moving to inspect his IV bag.

"Jack came by t' see me," Reyes goes on, staring up at her with clouded eyes. "Ana too."

"I'm aware," Angela murmurs, truly only half listening as she reads over the nurse's notes. She frowns at the comment _difficult,_ written numerous times in red ink.

"You resisted your drugs?" she asks, looking up at him in exasperation.

Reyes offers a sloppy shrug, and she sighs.

"I'll speak with the head nurse," she mutters to herself. "I can treat you much better at my own table. You need to get out of here." She sighs again, tucking the clipboard under her arm and surveying Overwatch's Commander as he lets his eyes fall shut again, chest rising as he falls back into a light, fitful sleep.

Angela shakes her head slightly. _"Gute besserung,"_ she murmurs, before turning to leave his room, closing the door softly behind herself.

Outside, she's greeted by Morrison and Ana.

"How is he?" Morrison asks anxiously, watching as Angela draws closer. "The nurse said—"

"Forget what she said," Angela cuts him off bluntly. "We're moving him." She lifts her gaze to look the soldier in the eyes, expression cold. "Next time, I want him brought directly to me," she orders him fiercely. "Not just Gabriel—any member of Overwatch, any time of day."

"That's impractical," Ana points out dryly.

Angela points a finger at Reyes' room. "And the Commander of the most highly advanced militaristic group in the world being treated by an RN fresh out of University _isn't?"_ she demands.

Ana shrugs. "You're not omnipresent, Angela. Valkyrie suit or not. You cannot be everything for everyone."

Angela takes a step, lifting her chin to glare into the face of the proud Egyptian sharpshooter.

"I do not burden you with my theories on your own limitations, Ana," she whispers, voice low and fierce. "You say you can make a shot, and I believe that you will make it. So when I tell you I can heal someone, I expect you to keep your doubts to yourself."

Ana just smirks, crinkling the tattoo under her eye.

Angela then turns crisply on her heel, striding out of the hospital, heart hammering in her chest. She is Overwatch's angel, yes. But angelic fury is fury still.

-0-

The night is warm and dry as Angela steps out into it.

She closes the door that leads to the balcony behind herself, silencing the noise of the Halloween party she just excused herself from. She gives herself roughly twenty minutes until Torbjörn comes looking for her, demanding another turn on the dance floor. She smiles lightly at the thought, endlessly amused by the uproarious engineer, as she draws closer to the lone figure standing outside.

"Here," she offers, handing him a bottle of beer she'd snatched from an ice bucket by the door. "I brought you something."

Reyes turns his head, assessing her over his shoulder. He arches an eyebrow at her gift.

"What kinda doctor prescribes alcohol?" he asks with a smirk.

She rolls her eyes, pushing it into his hands. "Don't get used to it."

He just chuckles, accepting the drink and popping the top off with a practiced twist.

"So what brings you out here?" he asks. "Always had you pegged for a huge partier."

She snorts, rolling her eyes once more and stepping closer to the guardrail, resting her elbows on the metal and gazing out over the cityscape, not even bothering to retort to such a ridiculous statement. _Huge pariter?_ Reyes had seen her make instant Mac n Cheese at three in the morning on _more_ that one occasion.

"Los Angeles is beautiful," she murmurs instead, drawn to the skyline spread before her.

Reyes shrugs. "It's a place, just like any other."

She allows this with a dip of her head. "You lived here though, yes?"

"Yeah," Reyes takes another drink. "Worst time of my life."

She faces him, surprised. "Truly?"

He waves a brown hand at the sprawling metropolis below them. "LA's great, if you're rich and preferably white." He glances at her, arching an eyebrow as he takes another pull from his beer. "Didn't really go so well for me. Weird, right?" His tone is riddled with bitterness. Angela's hands curl tighter around the banister.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs. "I had no idea."

He shrugs. "It is what it is. I made out okay."

A peaceful quiet falls between them, broken only by the music and laughter coming from the room where the party rages on.

"Why'd you become a doctor?" he asks eventually, turning around to rest his back against the guardrail in order to look her in the face.

Angela sighs, crossing her arms and gazing out at the lights of the city.

"I wanted to help people," she explains softly. "People like my parents."

This catches his attention. "Your parents?"

She nods. "They were killed during wartime. I was with my grandmother." She sighs, voice heavy with old sadness. "I came back to two funerals and an empty house."

"Sorry to hear it," Reyes replies—a reflexive, stock answer. He honestly doesn't know what to say. He'd always assumed the good doctor had been brought up in a loving, tender family—endlessly supported and cared for. It was the only thing that explained her own boundless kindness and compassion.

 _But then,_ he thinks, recalling old conversations with Ana, _sometimes it's the people who've been hurt the most who are the best at loving._

Angela just shrugs. "Old wounds, yes? We cannot change the past." She looks up to offer him a small smile. "I made out okay."

Reyes bobs his head in agreement. Silence settles over them, warm and comfortable, until he finally decides to address the proverbial elephant, eyeing her costume.

"A witch, huh?" he asks, arching an eyebrow.

Angela shrugs, calmly adjusting her hat. "I had to subvert the sexy nurse trope somehow. Americans have such bizarre tastes."

He snorts at this, looking back over the balcony. "You're a doctor," he says, taking a swig. "Wouldn't make sense anyway."

She smiles fondly, staring out at the cityscape. The wind tugs at her hat until she pulls it off, her blonde hair tumbling down past her shoulders. Reyes watches her out of the corner of his eye, nursing his beer.

"I wish Halloween was the only time people called me a witch," she murmurs, smiling bitterly to herself. Something about Overwatch's Commander always compels her to spill her guts—fill the silence with her secrets until there's nothing left uncovered. It makes her shiver. Reyes looks up in confusion, a strange protectiveness swirling up in his gut. Angela pays him no mind.

"I've been called worse things," she admits with a shrug. "Not everyone is happy with my work." She sighs, toying with the hat in her slender fingers. "They liken me to Dr. Frankenstein, or Dr. Kevorkian."

"Fuck 'em."

Angela looks up in surprise, but Reyes meets her gaze evenly.

"Gabriel—"

 _"Fuck 'em,"_ he repeats, harsher this time. "You've done more good than anyone else in this world, Angela." He looks away then, back over the lights of his city.

"You didn't get nicknamed Overwatch's angel by accident, Doc," he mutters, taking another drink. "Anyone who says different—who says you're some kind of monster—needs to take a good fucking look at themselves."

She smiles softly to herself, dully warmed by his praise.

"Thank you, Gabriel," she murmurs.

 _"Gern geschehen,"_ he mutters back.

She beams.

-0-

She finds him pacing around the meeting room, eyes alight with fury.

"Gabriel," she says softly. "Please talk to me."

"There's nothing to _say,"_ he growls. She flinches at the bite in his voice.

"I just saw Jesse, he told me—"

Reyes rounds on her. "He told you a bunch of bullshit, I'm sure," he growls. "He's too busy kissing Jack's _ass_ to do much of anything else."

"Gabriel," there's a whisper of rebuke in her voice. "Please. I don't understand."

He shoots her a vexed look. "It isn't particularly complicated, Doctor," he retorts.

Her gaze hardens. "Well, for something so simple, you're certainly having difficulty spitting it out," she snaps back.

"Then why are you here?" he demands roughly.

They stare at each other, gazes sharp and expression cold.

 _"Unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno,"_ she recites quietly.

He flings her a look of annoyance. "I don't speak German."

"It's _Latin,"_ she corrects him coldly. He knows the difference. This is causal cruelty. "It means _one for all, all for one."_

His annoyance melts to incredulity. "This isn't a summer camp."

"It's the motto of my country," Angela snaps. "And it is the motto I have applied to my work. Everyone working towards a common goal. That is what it means to be apart of Overwatch."

Fury seizes Reyes—so fierce and stark he slams his fist into the wall with a shout. Angela watches him, undaunted by his display. Her own infirmary boasts a few dents from her own lost temper.

"I don't need _you_ to tell me what _Overwatch_ stands for!" he snaps at her. "I was risking my _life_ in the Omnic Crisis while _you_ were passing out band-aids in the Alps!"

Angela's expression hardens with anger, but she keeps her composure.

"I am not one to give advice where it is not needed, Gabriel," she reminds him coolly. "You know this. You have always known this. You are forgetting your purpose."

He glares at her. "Maybe I want a new purpose."

She stares him down. "Purpose is not a choice, Gabriel. It is a privilege."

"You sound like Jack," he grumbles irritably, striding past her roughly, purposefully knocking shoulders as he makes his way to the other side of his room. Angela stares after him, irked.

"Perhaps I do sound like him," she retorts, words laced with sarcasm as she gives her coat a firm tug to straighten it. "Heaven forbid one of us speak sensibly."

"Shut _up!"_ he orders, whipping around to glare at her.

She meets his angry stare boldly. "What are you not telling me, Gabriel?" she demands lowly. "You have pride, yes. For God's sake we all do. But not like this. John is your friend, you have fought by his side for years. You told me yourself you viewed him as a brother. And now, what? He gets some sort of _promotion_ and now you hate him?"

"It isn't some fucking _promotion,"_ Reyes flings at her, and the ice in his voice bites with a vengeance. "They handed him Overwatch, Angela. They just _handed_ it to him!"

She spreads her hands. "And? Why does this matter? You're still on the team!"

"It's _my_ team!" he argues.

Her gaze could rival Medusa's. "All for one, one for all," she reminds him coldly. "Speak carefully, _Commander,"_ his old title is twisted until it stings. "It is difficult to tell the truth when you are choking on your pride."

But even as she says it, she knows something is more than it seems. This is not Gabriel Reyes—understanding, generous, unbreakable Gabriel Reyes. The man who is sharp with his tactical movements and soft with his words. The man who gives second chances to outlaws and makes homes for wayward doctors. Something is horribly, horribly wrong.

He gazes at her, and she wishes he would tell her what he is thinking—wishes she could treat his tormenting thoughts like she can treat broken bones and busted jaws. But she can't, so she simply waits for a confession that will never come as she turns to leave him alone with his thoughts.

"Angela."

She glances over her shoulder, gut suddenly heavy with dread.

"Yes?" she asks hesitantly. He won't face her.

"If it came down to a fight—a real, actual conflict—"

She cuts him off.

"Be very careful how you finish that sentence, Gabriel," she warns him softly. He turns back and finds her staring at him, heartache and war in her eyes. "Be very careful what you ask of me. You know who I am, you know where my priorities lay." She spreads her hands helplessly. "Do not ask questions with painful answers."

They stare at each other silently for a moment—like they have so many moments before. But this one tastes of finales and farewells, and Angela feels like the world is closing in around her.

"Who would you back?"

All the whispers of Blackwatch come rushing back to her until Angela thinks her knees might buckle. So it's true, then. He's leaving. Being _forced_ to leave. By who? Her hands fist themselves where she holds them stiffly at her sides. John? Surely not. Those two are brothers—closer than blood. Someone else is responsible, she knows it—

She gazes at him sadly, shaking her head in dismay.

"Overwatch supports John, and I support Overwatch," she explains quietly. "I will aid whoever I must to ensure I can continue helping people, Gabriel."

"You'd fight me, then." He isn't surprised, but his heart aches dully with an emotion he can't place. "You'd kill me."

Her eyes narrow. "I would never harm you, Gabriel. You are my friend and comrade. I can oppose you without violence."

"But you'd still oppose me," he states flatly.

Angela throws her hands in the air. "What do you want me to say, Gabriel?" she demands. "That I will kill you? That I will help you overthrow Overwatch?" She drops her hands, shaking her head, looking so lost and afraid and wounded that Reyes almost regrets saying anything at all.

She just shakes her head. Blackwatch or Overwatch—it doesn't matter.

"Neither of those things will ever happen, Gabriel. _Ever."_

She turns and strides away then. 

Angels keep their word. Even ones that brush with death and darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> I love these two so much it's not even funny.
> 
> Bit of disclaimer: I dabble in McCree and Widowmaker's histories. You probably wanna know those before you try and make sense of this monster of a fic. Every little biographical fact, except for the line about Reyes' dad being a kid when he was a killed, is 100% canon.
> 
> So yeah. Not like super shippy. Just a bunch of scenes I had playing around in my head. I have like, two more Overwatch things planned and then I think I'm gonna put on the brakes for a bit. There's a lot that annoys me about this piece, but I always end up annoyed with my longer pieces so what the fuck. I knew if I didn't push through, this thing would end up rotting away in my drafts. I hope you enjoy. Also sorry if my German's wrong. I totally used a translator because I'm the worst. If anyone sees any problems and wants to let me know that'd be real swell.
> 
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